by John Peel
Doctor Who
The Daleks’ Masterplan
Part I
Mission to the Unknown
By John Peel
Based on the BBC television series by Terry Nation and Dennis Spooner by arrangement with BBC Books, a division of BBC Enterprises Ltd
Content
Chapter 1 The Toppled Towers Of Ilium
Chapter 2 The Screaming Jungle
Chapter 3 Extermination!
Chapter 4 The Nightmare Begins
Chapter 5 No Ordinary Ship
Chapter 6 The Day of Armageddon
Chapter 7 The Face Of The Enemy
Chapter 8 Devil’s Planet
Chapter 9 Dangers In The Night
Chapter 10 The Sacrifice
Chapter 11 The Traitors
Chapter 12 Counter-plot
Chapter 13 Allies
Chapter 14 Desperate Measures
Chapter 15 Out Of Time
Chapter 16 Interlude
Chapter 1
The Toppled Towers Of Ilium
Smoke filled the city as the invading Greeks torched every building that they could set alight. The night was bright with the dancing flames, proclaiming the final end of the Trojan War. Ten long, frustrating years for the Greeks were over now, thanks to the brilliance of Odysseus, they were inside the city of their most hated foes! Their anger spilled out with the blood of the screaming, fleeing Trojans. Berserk now, the invading troops ran through the streets and houses killing, looting and burning.
In the thoroughfares, small knots of Trojan soldiers tried to hold back the flood, at the same time gathering together what women and children they could. Fighting a desperate rearguard action, they struggled to escape the doomed Troy, and make it to safety on the plains.
One small group ran neither forward to loot and pillage nor back to flee the city. An old man, in loose Greek robes, with long silver hair and a silver-tipped cane struggled to help a young girl. She was almost borne to her knees under the weight of a warrior in Greek garb – the short leather skirt, the copper breastplate and the thonged sandals. His helmet was long discarded, and his handsome face was pale. The section of his clothing below the breastplate was dark with his life-blood. What was most strange about the elfin, dark-haired girl helping to drag him through the smoke was that she was a Trojan, dressed as a serving girl from the palace of King Priam himself.
‘Here,’ the Doctor called, gesturing to a small ante-room of the palace. ‘Katarina, we must take Steven in here.’
Though she nodded and helped with the struggle to get Steven into the blazing building, Katarina could not understand why the old man wanted his friend to be helped into a room that in moments would be an inferno. Still, the Doctor was perhaps Zeus in disguise – did not the gods often walk upon the Earth? To him, the flames might not be hot, but cool and refreshing. To her? Well, she must trust. Ahead of them, she could make out the strange, tall blue box that had so puzzled King Priam when it had been brought to him. No one had been able to open it.
Trying vainly to brush away the smoke that filled everywhere, the Doctor managed to pull the key from his clothing. Eyes streaming, he fitted it into the lock and turned it.
The TARDIS doors swung inwards. The Doctor, unable to speak without coughing, gestured for Katarina to help him get Steven within. Still uncomprehending, but trusting, she did so. As so as they were inside, the Doctor abandoned both his companions and hurried over to the console. He triggered the door switch, and the double doors swung closed behind them. He coughed again, then smiled briefly. ‘Ah! Fresh air, at last. Now we can breathe.’
Katarina was staggered by the size of the room that they were in: this was no small chest as it had seemed from the outside, but a temple annexe, at least thirty feet across! Lights blazed on the white walls that looked like polished stone. An altar stood in the centre of the room, over which the Doctor brooded, moving sticks and touching coloured baubles. What could he be doing? Suddenly the centre of the altar began to rise and fall, and a terrible noise, the baying of Cerberus, guardian hound of the Underworld, began. Katarina fell to her knees and hid her face in terror.
Oblivious, the Doctor finished setting the controls. ‘The sooner we are away from this barbaric period,’ he muttered, ‘the better I shall like it.’ He glanced down at his clothing in disgust. ‘And the sooner I am properly attired again...’ Finally, he remembered his companions, and turned to them. Steven was on the floor, very still, and that silly handmaiden, Katarina, was all in a bundle. How could he have let Vicki talk him into taking this girl along to help with Steven? But Vicki had insisted on staying with that young whipper-snapper... what was his name? Ah, Troilus! That was it. Love! It did silly things to humans, especially the females. Why, it had even affected his own granddaughter not that long ago...
Heaving himself out of his reverie, the Doctor hurried over to Katarina and Steven. ‘Oh, do get up,’ he snapped crossly at the Trojan girl. ‘Give me a hand with Steven. We had better get him to bed, and get this armour off him. I must see what shape that wound is in.’
Katarina looked up, timorously. ‘Is this your temple?’
‘My what? What are you talking about?’
She gestured about the room. ‘This is your temple,’ she said, more firmly.
‘It is nothing of the kind,’ the Doctor replied crossly. ‘It’s my ship.’
‘This is no ship,’ Katarina laughed. ‘Where are the sails? Where are the oarsmen? No, this is your temple, and we are journeying through the Underworld to the Place of Perfection.’
What a stupid child! The Doctor sighed, realizing that she couldn’t help it. Science was unknown in her culture, and she was doing what she could to try to make sense of what was happening to her. ‘Yes, well, whatever you like,’ he said, brusquely. ‘Just give me a hand to get Steven to a bed, will you?’
Together, they half-carried, half-dragged him through the far doors and into his own room in the TARDIS. Once Steven was stretched out on the bed, the Doctor looked him over. He seemed very weak and pale, and was having trouble breathing. ‘Can you get this silly plate off him?’ the Doctor asked Katarina.
‘Of course. I am a handmaid in the palace of Priam of Troy. I know of the accoutrements of war.’
‘Well, stop boasting and just do it, child.’
Katarina set to work, and within moments had the fastenings undone. Gently, she removed the breastplate and set it down. Steven’s tunic was soaked in blood. She tenderly moved the cloth aside, so as not to hurt him further. ‘I shall need water,’ she said, ‘if I am to help your priest. The wound has bitten deep.’
The Doctor nodded, and hurried off to get warm water for her. Whatever her faults, she did seem to have more than a nodding acquaintance with sword-wounds. As soon as he had the water ready, he hurried back with it. Katarina had meanwhile started to clean out the wound, using the cloths at hand. Without a word, the Doctor handed her the bowl of warm water. Katarina, in her element now, continued her task. The Doctor left her, and went to his medicine chest.
It was sorely depleted. He had intended to fill it on many of his trips, but had become so easily side-tracked. A bandage, some gauze and a little antiseptic cream was the best that he could manage. Hurrying back, he saw that Katarina had sponged off the blood that had covered Steven’s wound. It was a nasty gash in his side, but had luckily missed penetrating anything vital. The Doctor didn’t like the red colour of the skin about the wound, or Steven’s laboured breathing. He seriously doubted that the Trojan sword that had cut into his young companion had been sterile. By now, millions of germs could have infected Steven. The Doctor elbowed Katarina aside, and started to apply his makeshift
dressing.
‘I have seen such a wound many times,’ Katarina offered. ‘It is invariably fatal. Your priest will die. I am sorry for you, but at least we shall take him down to the Underworld in your temple.’
‘Oh, do stop that!’ the Doctor snapped. ‘You’re no Florence Nightingale, and that’s for certain! All he needs are some antibiotics to combat the toxins, and he’ll be fine.’
Katarina regarded him uncomprehendingly. ‘I do not understand your words,’ she confessed. ‘Do you mean that you can cure even such a mortal wound?’
‘Of course. Ah, well, that is – I can with proper medication. What we need is to find a world and time which is sufficiently sophisticated to have developed such medication.’ Seeing her blank expression, the Doctor simplified his explanation to suit her level of understanding. ‘My temple passes through many worlds on its journey. On some of them, there exist the herbs I need to cure my priest. I must simply seek help.’
At last, Katarina smiled. ‘Ah! You seek out the secrets of the Underworld, the fabled plants that give immortal life! With those, you can save the life of Steven!’
The Doctor nodded. ‘Whatever you say,’ he agreed. ‘You stay here and nurse him as best you can. I shall try to steer my – ah – temple to some suitable spot. If we cannot find the right... herbs, I am very much afraid that Steven will die.’
Chapter 2
The Screaming Jungle
An eldritch scream rent the air, the sound of a hunting animal having succeeded in its quest. Garvey’s eyes snapped open, and he cast about for several seconds. He could see nothing but the vast, impersonal jungle that covered almost all of the land area of this planet. Tall trees sought the sky, while huge creepers tried to tie them to the ground. Shrubs, bushes, grasses and worse were scattered about the trees. Every now and again, something rustled through the undergrowth, or there was a movement in the branches. In all the time that he had been here, Garvey had seen no animal life, however. Any creatures in this nightmare forest were too cautious to expose themselves to view. All Garvey or his companions had seen were the endless plants. Worst of all were the ever-present, beautiful-seeming orchid trees. Tall, multi-coloured growths, they gave forth delightful scents – and spat deadly poison on to anyone foolish enough to get too close to them. The plants were carnivorous, and once their prey had thrashed in agony and died, the plant would slowly lower its bell over the carcass and begin to feed. Garvey had even seen one variety of the orchids that shot out a jet of fire – a thick liquid that burst into flames on contact with the air. The liquid would stick to its victim and burn them horribly to death.
The jungle was at its worst when it showed its most lovely face. Bright colours, delectable scents and cheerful appearance meant that the plants were lures.
But they had heard far more. The jungle held a background chatter of noises – perhaps simply territorial cries, mates calling to one another and baby creatures calling out in puzzlement at the world in which they found themselves. Garvey doubted this: he believed that the cries were of death and impending death, of hunters and victims. He had became convinced that very soon his voice would echo through this nightmare forest.
He realized that he was panting in fear again, and made a heroic effort to calm down. Sweat plastered his face and the palms of his hands. Nervously, he rubbed them on his dark uniform to dry them. Once, on Earth, he had been considered handsome, but now his face was pinched with constant terror, etched by the rivulets of sweaty fear and dirtied by constantly being buried in the undergrowth when he hid from – what?
Now that he was awake, he began to wonder. Why was he here? What was he doing? What had happened...
The pain began, building swiftly behind his eyes, burning at his brain. With a hollow cry he collapsed, gripping his temples, squeezing, trying to relieve the terrible pain. He threw back his head, but even in his agony, his fear reminded him to make as little noise as possible, and he stayed silent. After long, stabbing seconds, the pain began to ebb, and he could let go of his head. Something had come back to him, and he now knew what he must do.
He reached for his belt, and unbuckled his pistol. With practised ease, he checked the remaining charges, and then set the weapon to its highest beam. A smile that would have done credit to some demon from the pits of Hell swept across his face. ‘I remember,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Remember... I must kill. Must kill... kill...’
Just over a mile from Garvey, one alien artefact stood in a small clearing of its own creation. The small scout ship had swung down over Kembel as it had approached, and then this site had been selected for a landing. The rockets that had slowed the ship to a landing had burnt away the vegetation for several hundred yards around. Despite this, the jungle was starting even now to edge in closer, eager to fill up this gap in itself.
The scout ship was small, designed for in-system flight and not inter-planetary hops. It was barely large enough to contain its three passengers or crew and several days’ supplies for them. The rest of the ship was the reaction drive, and it was this that was causing the problems. The final two members of this expedition were standing by a small hole in the hull. The plate they had removed lay on the scorched ground beside them.
Marc Cory was holding the tool chest, and trying to see what his companion was doing. Cory was lean, tall and dark, in a good-looking way. He was just a shade on the right side of thirty, and possessed what seemed to be a vast indifference to the Universe in general. Unlike Garvey, Cory was not terrified of Kembel; it was simply another world of the many he had visited in the past few years. Some had been worse than this, though most had been better. Kembel was just a job to Cory, one to be accomplished swiftly, so he could move on to the next.
His companion, currently head and shoulders into the cavity in the ship’s hull, was the captain-pilot, Gordon Lowery. A gentler, cheerier man than Cory, Lowery also could have cared less about Kembel. He was a born spacer, eager to get off worlds with their unpleasant gravity and back into free space, where he belonged. At the moment, this was impossible, so he blamed the man responsible. ‘Why you wanted to land on this planet I’ll never know,’ he grumbled over his shoulder. ‘It’s getting on my nerves.’ To punctuate his comment, there was another ululating squeal from the jungle. ‘I hate to think what kind of animal makes a noise like that,’ he added. ‘And you notice something? They’re getting closer.’ Hearing just a grunt from Cory, Lowery stuck his head out of the panel. ‘I’ll tell you one thing – I don’t want to be around when whatever-it-is arrives. Hand me that wrench, will you?’
Cory peered into the box of gadgets, almost all of which looked as alien to him as the landscape. On a hunch, he pulled out what he considered to be a wrench and offered it to Lowery. Lowery scowled, waved it aside, and pulled a different instrument from the box. His head and arms vanished back into the hatchway. Cory shrugged. ‘So, how’s it going?’ he asked, conversationally.
‘Slow,’ came the reply. ‘The flareback melted some of the retaining heads, and all we’ve got is solid lumps of Tarnium instead of precision contacts. I’ve got to get them free and replace them.’
‘Is there time for me to look around?’
Lowery’s head popped out again; with a distinctly angry expression on it. ‘Look, if we don’t lift off in the next hour, we’ll miss the rendezvous with the freighter. If we’re not there, they’ll assume that we aren’t coming. They won’t wait.’
‘You’ll make it, Lowery.’
‘I’m doing the best I can,’ Lowery yelled back, waving the wrench about threateningly. He didn’t like passengers who made him damage his ship – especially ones who seemed indifferent to the problems. ‘I didn’t want to touch down on this lousy planet anyway.’
‘Let’s not start that again,’ Cory suggested. ‘Just get on with the work, eh?’
For a moment, Lowery looked all set to use the wrench on Cory, but he finally bent back to his task. Cory set down the box of tools, and stared off to the south. ‘
Where the devil is Garvey?’ he asked, rhetorically. ‘He should have been back by now.’
Lowery answered anyhow. ‘He’ll be here for take-off – if we take off. Screwdriver!’ He held out his hand, and gestured. Cory hazarded another guess in the toolbox, and this time was correct. The instrument vanished into the hole.
With Cory’s attention diverted from the jungle, he failed to see the rustling of the leaves as Garvey peered out at the ship. The lone man smiled his evil grin again, and stared at the ship and the two men working on it. He clutched at his pistol, and the haze descended over his brain again. What was it he had to do? Ah, yes! Kill ...
He lurched unsteadily to his feet, and moved quietly into the open. Then he slipped about the clearing until the bulk of the scout ship was between him and his prey...
There was a loud snapping sound, and Lowery re-emerged from the cavity in the hull, holding a piece of melted metal. ‘Look at that!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s useless.’ He flung it with considerable force towards the jungle. ‘Get me a spare, will you?’ Cory assumed that it was one of the retaining whatevers that the pilot had been complaining about, and started to rummage about in the toolbox for a replacement. ‘Not in there,’ Lowery said, ‘in the ship’s store.’
Nodding, Cory clambered inside the small ship. Lowery set to work on the other lump of fused metal. Lost in his work, he failed to see or hear the approaching form of Garvey. Garvey, on the other hand, had an excellent view of Lowery. He smiled his wicked smile again, and raised his pistol for a shot into the back of his unsuspecting comrade.
‘Cory, don’t bother!’ Lowery yelled out. ‘Spares aren’t going to do us any good. This thing’s spattered all over the valve linkages.’
Garvey’s face was sweating, but his hand was steady. He began to squeeze the trigger, slowly...
At the sound of the blaster, Lowery spun about, in time to see the brief flare that silhouetted Garvey’s body, and to hear the final scream that escaped the man’s lips. As Garvey fell, face down, Lowery could see Cory standing in the hatchway, his pistol at the ready. Lowery ran to Garvey, and turned him over. It was quite obvious that the man was dead.